The world my sun-baked spud, my stove the day! And if at times its rind be charred and tough Keen hunger is the knife that cuts the way— There's death in surfeit, dullness in "Enough". To the anatomists—my twisted spine— Diploma of equestrian despite; But to their patients half my Crusoe sleight Of fishing out the cargo from the wreck; And this light heart—to raft them to the calm Green island with its periscope of palm, And my Good Luck to Admiral the deck! To those who dream of roses and of lilies— (Earnest of faith) these breeches I got rent When breaking in the pride of English fillies (My warhorse still) and punching cows in Kent. And to my children, all that I would save, When empires crash and red battalions form, The Celtic blood so buoyant to the storm, That gay joy-riding foam of every wave!*